


With Maddening Hunger

by supernatasha



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Mental Instability
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 23:14:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/932217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supernatasha/pseuds/supernatasha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His eyes are wide with fear. The fear that has haunted and followed him for his entire life, that he has inherited his mother’s illness.</p><p>Post Season 7. Title taken from Benedict Smith's poem, "I Wish I Wrote the Way I Thought."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "They're Too Loud."

His first break occurs in the BAU office at Quantico at 2 AM. Most of the staff has already left for home except a few members of the profiling team, finishing the paperwork for their last assignment. They’re all tired and hungry, joking and suggesting places to eat that are still open this late (“this early, you mean,” Morgan laughs).

Hotch is the first to go, making worried noises about his son and constantly checking his cell. Rossi sneaks out when no one’s looking. JJ leaves next, saying Henry and Will had saved her leftovers. Prentiss and Garcia link arms and play rock-paper-scissor to decide whether they’d eat Chinese or Mexican. They invite Reid and Morgan to join them but Reid shakes his head and says there’s a Chaucer novel and a pot of noodles calling his name at home, and Morgan says he’ll wait.

So Morgan and Reid are left alone, him on his laptop and Reid scribbling in that usual furious way at the reports that often resulted in ripped paper. The A/C hums incessantly but other than that, there is nothing but silence. Morgan yawns, wondering if he should’ve just accepted the offer; he'd be home by now at least. Being alone with Spencer Reid is simultaneously a blessing in that his best friend makes him comfortable- and a curse.

A few weeks back, Reid received a call that his mother died. Reid chose not to share any details with the BAU, simply took a week off to fly to California and then showed up back to work. He refused to talk about it at all. But it was apparent that Reid wasn’t entirely over it. And now, well, it was the massive elephant in the room.

Reid occasionally makes frustrated noises, hands pressed against his temples. He does so now and it attracts Morgan's attention.

“You alright?” Morgan asks.

“Headache,” Reid replies.

“You want to call it a day? Pop some aspirin, get a little sleep?”

“No.”

“What’s so important that you can’t file away until tomorrow?”

“Suicide report. Rose petals.” This is how conversations with Reid typically go these days. Bare minimum answers. His complaints about headache are constantly present, but he downplays the symptoms until they’re obvious to an outside observer.

Finally, Morgan stretches and shuts down his laptop. “I’ll be right back,” he tells Reid, who barely acknowledges him. At the bathroom, he splashes water on his face and stares at himself in the mirror. He has bags under his eyes and even he can see how tired he looks.

He can’t leave Reid alone. He doesn’t want to.

The brown paper napkins he wipes his face with are scratchy and uncomfortable.

He hears a muffled crashing. Instantly alert, Morgan shoves open the door and runs down the hall. He draws his gun just in time to hear another, louder sound. Morgan holds open the glass office door and stares in bewilderment.

It’s Reid. The phone off his desk is shattered at the far wall. As is the phone from Prentiss’s desk. Now Reid yanks out the wire from Morgan’s desk phone and hurls it toward the wall. As the phone connects with a deafening explosion of springs and buttons, Reid spots Morgan.

In a logical voice betraying his previous demeanor, Reid says, “They’re too loud. Tell them to be quiet.”

Morgan lowers his gun and does a quick glance around the darkened office. “Tell who to be quiet?”

“The voices. Tell them to be quiet.”

Morgan takes a step forward so the door quietly swings shut behind him. “Spencer… nobody’s talking. We’re the only ones here. Which voices do you want me to quiet?”

Reid’s eyebrows draw together. He stands silent and frozen for a second, not even breathing, before launching into action. He snatches the phone off the nearest desk and heaves it at the closest wall, shouting, “THESE FUCKING VOICES!”

Morgan flinches and turns, shielding himself from the rain of phone-parts. Then, before Reid can cause more damage, Morgan runs forward. He tucks his gun back in the holster and grabs the other man by both wrists.

Reid doesn’t struggle, his violent outburst seeming implausible with this new non-reaction. He just glances down at where Morgan’s hands are circled around his wrists tight enough to restrict blood flow. Recognition and confusion flickers in his eyes.

“Derek? What are you doing?”

“What am _I_ doing?” Morgan laughs humorlessly. He doesn’t let go. “You just destroyed four office phones by throwing them against a wall, demanding the nonexistent voices be quiet, and you’re asking me what _I’m_ doing?”

“What voices?” Reid asks.

“Exactly!”

Reid chuckles nervously and pulls at his wrists. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Haha, very good prank,” he adds dryly. “But seriously, your vice-like grip is starting to hurt.”

Morgan relaxes and Reid snatches his hands away, rubbing.

“Are you sure you don’t remember what just happened?” Morgan asks.

“It isn’t that funny of a prank to pursue, I don’t know why you would even…” his gaze falls on the phones. “What happened there?” he asks.

“Spencer, I already told you.”

That’s all Morgan says before Reid turns back to him. The expression on his face makes it clear that he’s put the pieces together. His eyes are wide with fear. The fear that has haunted and followed him for his entire life, the fear that he’s inherited his mother’s illness. Almost comically, his neck swivels between Morgan’s grim expression and the technological mess covering the floor.

“No,” Reid whispers. “Please tell me I didn’t.”

Morgan doesn’t answer. His throat feels too tight; he doesn’t think he can. Instead, he says “Look, we’re both over-tired and stressed out; we just need to eat and sleep. This… never mind this. Find a trashbag, or a plastic bag, anything. I’ll start picking up the big parts and sweeping up the small parts.”

Reid stares at him. His eyes are wet. Finally, he scurries off, his long skinny frame swaying unsteadily as it vanishes out the door. Morgan is tempted to run after him and make sure he doesn’t lose control again but just a few seconds later, Reid is back. He’s carrying the trashcan from the hall.

They both quietly work side by side. Morgan ties off the bags and they throw them outside in the dumpster. Reid doesn’t stop looking spooked. Morgan doesn’t stop feeling terrified.

Afterward, Morgan drives Reid to his apartment in an uncomfortable wordless car drive and waits until he’s inside. Then, instinctively, he parks and runs toward the building. Luckily, Reid’s still on the ground floor waiting for the elevator. Morgan remembers Reid's dislike of elevators.

“Did I leave something?” Reid asks.

“I don’t want you to be alone tonight,” Morgan answers.

“Derek, I’m fine.”

“It’s not open for debate. And besides, my house is an hour away, the neighbors are watching my dog, and I’m starving,” Morgan lies cleanly. In truth, his house is only half an hour away, his backyard door is open and fenced for the dog, and his appetite has entirely vanished. But it’s true: he doesn’t want Reid to be alone tonight.

When the elevator door opens, they both enter together and Reid smiles wanly and says, “Thank you.”

The confined space is charged with tension. If there was every any chance Morgan would act on his attraction to the young genius, it disappears slowly. Reid doesn't need romance; he needs help.


	2. "It's Not A Nightmare."

Morgan wakes up unsure. Why is he on a couch, why are there books on the rug, and whose fucking rug is it? His first immediate reflex is to get his clothes and leave. But then he remembers: this isn't a one night stand. It's Reid.

So he pulls himself upright and stretches. It’s still a shock when Morgan glances around and sees the living room piled high on every available surface with books, crammed into the shelves, overflowing from drawers, even one perched precariously on top of a lamp. The only thing that’s not a book, in fact, is the piano resting in one of the corners- but even it is covered with books and paper scrawled with musical notes.

Where his phone is plugged in on one of Reid’s spare chargers, Morgan finds a note scribbled in familiar writing:

_Went to get breakfast. Towel already in bathroom._

By the time Morgan steps out of the steaming shower, the towel wrapped around his lower torso, Reid’s already back. He doesn’t notice the door opening while facing the mirror, knotting his tie.

“So you have any clothes lying around here that might fit me?” Morgan asks doubtfully, pulling open the closet doors and rifling through the shirts on hangers.

“No, wait-” Reid starts to turn but Morgan’s already found the two drawers at the bottom. One is adorned in girly handwriting in permanent marker, **LA**. The other is simply scrawled with a capital **E**. Before Reid can say more, Morgan has the **LA** drawer open. He pulls out a lacy black bra.

“Uh, Spencer, is there something you want to tell me?”

Reid’s face has gone red. “Lila Archer drops by sometimes,” he mutters to the hardwood floor.

“And the other one?”

This time Reid stutters as he admits, “So-so does Ethan.”

_I shouldn’t have asked._ Ignoring the slight pang of jealousy, Morgan raises an eyebrow and opens Ethan’s drawer. “Well, luckily, Ethan and I might be the same size.”

Reid doesn’t say anything more, quickly leaving the room for Morgan to dress.

They drive to the BAU in Morgan’s car. He feels uncomfortable in another man’s clothes, but he has no intention of showing up in the same outfit as last night. Garcia has a nose for these things. He doesn’t want her noticing.

Although he doesn’t mention anything, Reid seems uncomfortable. Finally, he blurts, “It’s not serious.”

“What’s not serious?” Morgan asks. He knows, but he asks anyway. He has to, if the conversation is expected to go any further.

“With either of them. I mean, Lila’s just… she’s all Hollywood and glam. She needs a place sometimes to crash, you know, away from the paparazzi and the other famous people.  West Hollywood has an average of 1,942 crimes annually- really, the longer she spends away from there, the safer for her. And I like her. She isn’t annoying.”

Morgan stays silent. He knows Reid would never come out and say he’s sleeping with them- and, in a way, he doesn’t have to. This is Reid’s business. If Reid feels compelled to explain…

He does, it seems. “Ethan’s my oldest friend,” he says and then falls silent. As if it’s that simple. All to it.

Morgan shrugs and continues to drive. Reid gets even antsier.

Back at the BAU, as soon as they walk through the glass door, Reid freezes. His eyes fix on Prentiss. She’s examining a mark on the wall- the one Reid had made the night before when he threw one of the phones. Morgan notices and whispers, “What’s wrong?”

“The phones. They’ll notice the missing phones.” His voice trembles. Geniuses aren’t supposed to forget about obvious things like that.

Morgan murmurs softly to Reid, “Don’t worry about it. Follow my lead.” He walks over to Prentiss and Reid follows with faltering steps. “Hey, your desk phone was making some weird noises last night.”

Prentiss stares at him. “My phone?” she asks.

“Yeah- actually, mine, too. And Spencer’s.” From behind Morgan, Reid gives a little wave. “We took them to IT. Left them with a note. I guess we’ll have to find replacements.”

“I guess we will,” Prentiss agrees. And that's it.

Reid gives Morgan a grateful smile as he settles back at his desk. And Morgan returns the smile. He’s glad no one noticed them walking in together. He’d hate to give them boring, disappointing answers of how he spent the night. He’d hate that the night had to be boring and disappointing.

;

The incident was never truly forgotten by Morgan but, over time, it faded. Reid stayed Reid, no voices or tantrums. They didn’t mention the night and it slowly slipped their minds. Morgan didn’t think of it again.

Until three months later.

;

Alaska. North to the Future- and to serial killers, rapists, spouse abusers, and drug addicts. This particular case involved a man linked to and convicted of all four. On the jet, the team tried to get warm with their mugs of decaf coffee and relax. It had been 3 days since any of them got a full, decent night’s sleep.

“I’m surprised how many patients that psychologist was treating, considering the size of that town,” Garcia observes.

“Yeah, actually, suicide rates for the rural areas in Alaska is over double that of urban areas, a statistic reversed in most other US states,” Reid informs them.

“Well, that’s good to know,” Prentiss laughs.

Reid, having missed the sarcasm, continues, “Their rates of sexual assault are extraordinarily high as well- three times higher. Probably due to the alcohol consumption. And the average age of their female victims is 16. It’s even worse to consider the culprit is either a friend or family member in a total percentage of-” Reid pauses.

There is silence on the jet as the team waits for Reid to finish his statistic. He doesn’t. He stares at the faces of his team and adds in a small voice, “I remember. Just, just give me a minute. I know this.”

Morgan watches Reid struggle for a few more seconds before saying, “Reid, it’s okay. We’re all tired and clumsy right now. I don’t know about you lot, but I could definitely use a few hours of shut-eye right now.”

“Yeah, I’ll be waiting to hear that percentage when I wake up, Spence,” JJ agrees, getting out of her seat and finding one in the back to spread her legs out on. Eventually the group disperses as they each find a niche to get some rest in. Rossi turns down the lights.

“I know, I remember,” Reid insists quietly in the darkness, almost to himself.

Morgan, across from Reid, tosses him a blanket. “Go to sleep, genius,” he teases lightly. He knows better than to prod or comfort. That would only make Reid dwell. Morgan lays back and pretends to close his eyes.

He keeps watch as Reid wraps himself in the blanket, muttering under his tongue, rubbing his temples- a sure sign of headache. He keeps watch until Reid’s breathing evens out and his mouth falls open slightly. Only then does Morgan allow himself to fall asleep.

The sound of someone talking jerks him awake.

It’s Hotch leaning over Reid in the dim light, and he’s shaking Reid, “Spencer, you’re sleep talking,”

Morgan blinks and notices that yes, Reid is sleep-talking, indecipherable mumbling. He catches the words “eighty” and “assault” but everything else is too garbled.

“Spencer? You okay?” Morgan sleepily raises his voice.

Reid’s eyes fly open. He shrinks back from Hotch’s hands. “Stop it,” he says hoarsely.

“Sorry to wake you. But you were sleep talking,” Hotch explains. “I thought it might be a nightmare.”

“Don’t touch me, don’t come near me,” Reid says in a high pitch, cringing away from Hotch.

“Reid, you’re awake now, you’re okay. It’s me, Aaron Hotchner.”

“I told you not to come near me,” Reid repeats loudly.

Morgan’s alert now, sitting up and hyperaware of the detachment in Reid’s voice. He recognizes that detachment. He remembers. He remembers and his heart sinks down to his stomach as Reid cowers into the seat.

_The voices. Tell them to be quiet._

From the back of the plane, someone yawns. Someone else calls out, “What’s wrong? Are we home?” The lights flicker on, one by one.

Reid’s dark eyelids peer out from the stark contrast of his pale skin. His pupils are full-blown and hair is falling over his forehead.

Hotch doesn’t understand, of course he doesn’t. Not yet. “Reid? What is it?”

“Don’t,” Morgan warns Hotch, but he doesn’t listen. He touches Reid’s shoulder.

Reid’s fingers close around the closest object- a mug- and he pulls back his arm to hit Hotch’s hand. Hotch recognizes the move instantly as a threat and pulls back. “Something’s wrong,” Hotch says, still stepping away from Reid. Behind him, JJ and Rossi glance at each other.

_No. Please, no._ Morgan’s heart is beating too fast. _I should’ve told someone the first time it happened._ He reaches a hand out but that only seems to frighten the other man. Standing, he instructs the others, “Stay away. He needs space. Just give him space.”

“What happened?” JJ asks as Prentiss and Garcia join them.

“It was probably just a nightmare,” Morgan tries to play it off, but it doesn’t work.

“Spencer’s awake now,” Hotch counters. “It’s not a nightmare, Derek.”

“Shut up!” Reid yells, the arm with the mug still flailing uncertainly. There is terror in his every action, his tall frame hunched into the seat in an attempt to be as small as possible.

For the second time on the trip, absolute silence fills the jet, courtesy of Reid.

“I said SHUT UP!” Reid screams at the top of his lungs.

Garcia clutches the back of Morgan’s shirt. She’s breathing fast, her glasses slightly askew on her face. “Why is he doing that?” she asks in a small voice.

“I don’t know. Something must have triggered him,” Morgan answers, still keeping his eyes fixed on Reid. He seems to be losing momentum. The mug is still in his hand but instead of waving it threateningly, Reid holds it close like a safety blanket. His gaze flicks between members of the team, unsure who to stop at.

“What?” Rossi asks.

“What triggered him?” Morgan replies.

“No, I mean _triggered what?_ Derek, you just said ‘Something must have triggered him.’ Spencer Reid has nothing to be triggered. What do you know that you’re not telling us?” Rossi’s voice is calm and rational, yet his words drive a spike of panic through Morgan.

He silently berates himself for not being more careful. This was an incredibly intelligent team; they could pick up on anything. Now Morgan can feel the rest of them waiting for a response. He doesn’t know what to say or how to say it, so he says, “Family history. We all know that. We all know about his mother.”

Reid abruptly drops the mug and wraps his arms around himself. He rocks very slightly in the seat. The team relaxes along with him the tiniest bit. No one moves forward or away. Morgan is conscious of Garcia’s fingers holding the fabric of his shirt, undoubtedly stretching it permanently out of shape. They all give each other small glances, but no one is sure of what to do or what will set Reid off. So they wait. A few minutes pass.

The loudspeaker _dings_ on and the pilot’s voice announces, “Team, we’ll be landing back at headquarters in just a few minutes. Prepare for landing.”

Again, everyone tenses to see Reid’s reaction; he doesn’t react at all. Still curled up in fetal, still rocking, still unresponsive. The pressure in the team’s ears pops; they’re descending. The landing is smooth and a few minutes later, they can hear the engines shutting down.

“How are we going to get him off? Should we try to talk to him again?” JJ is the first to risk talking again.

“He looks catatonic,” Prentiss murmurs.

Hotch takes a wary step forward. Reid’s eyes fix on him but he doesn’t do anything else. He just stares up with haunted eyes. Hotch moves closer until he can reach out and touch Reid’s shoulder. Still nothing.

“Be careful,” Morgan warns, but it doesn’t matter now. Reid isn’t moving. He lets Hotch gently put both arms around his shoulders and help him stand. He does so robotically. Hotch leads Reid down the aisle, Garcia shrinking back into Morgan’s side, and off the jet. The rest of the team follows. Nobody quite knows what to say or how to say it.

Inside headquarters, Hotch wraps Reid in his own coat and leads him to his office sofa. Reid perches on the very edge of the couch. He doesn’t look around the room; he doesn’t even seem to notice where he is.

Hotch carefully closes the door behind him. Everyone crowds outside when Hotch steps out.

“Morgan, come with me. The rest of you, go home,” he orders. “I’m serious. Go. Home.”

Morgan reassuringly pats Garcia’s hand and follows Hotch into the briefing room. Hotch locks the door. “What the hell is the matter with him?” He demands.

“I… I don’t know.”

“No, but you have an idea. Don’t lie to me,” Hotch adds before Morgan can formulate another excuse. Morgan feels like a kid caught outside with his friends after curfew. Except this time, the consequences are a lot more serious than getting grounded.

Morgan tiredly rubs his eyes with both hands. He pulls out the closest chair and looks down at his shoes as he talks. “This happened before. A few months ago. After the case with the rose petals in Chicago. Reid complained of headache then started smashing phones in the building, screaming about voices. He seemed to snap out of it pretty quickly and I managed to get him home. I thought he might have just been overstressed.”

Hotch glares at him. “You shouldn’t have dismissed it. You know Reid’s family history.”

“I thought it was an isolated incident. It didn’t repeat-” Morgan tries to justify but Hotch cuts him off.

“Until now. It didn’t repeat until an hour ago.” Hotch stiffly sits down. His shoulders hunch downward. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with him now?”

“Do with him?” Morgan asks, surprised. He hasn’t thought about that.

“He needs to see someone. A psychiatrist. He’ll need a full psychological evaluation. They’ll keep him in observation, run tests,” Hotch frowns. “It’ll have to be company mandated.”

“Don’t do that to him. You know how much he loathes it.”

 “Derek, I have a responsibility to this team, to the BAU. There are certain protocols we can’t ignore when the health of a team member is in jeopardy. I can’t allow him to work again. Not when he’s a risk like that.”

“I think we can take care of ourselves,” Morgan argues.

“A risk to himself!” Hotch hisses. He leans forward over the table. “He nearly attacked me tonight; tomorrow it’ll be you, or Garcia. And what about next month? It’ll be himself. What if he wraps his hands around a gun instead of a mug? I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to him that I knew I could’ve stopped. And Derek, you couldn’t either.”

Morgan slumps back in his seat. “What can I do?”

“Take him home. Keep an eye on him. I’ll set up the appointments with the necessary doctors and file the reports,” Hotch instructs. Morgan stands. “Wait- Derek. Someone is going to have to explain to him why he isn’t coming in to work tomorrow. Perhaps you should take a day off as well.”

“I can’t let the team handle all of this work by themselves,” Morgan insists. He already feels guilty for letting Reid’s first break slide.

“We won’t. One of my old friends, Alex Blake, she’ll drop by and help out. She’s been looking for an excuse to get back in the BAU but we’re always at maximum capacity. She’ll be delighted to cover for the two of you.”

Morgan still hesitates. “This doesn’t feel right. We should give Reid more time.”

“More time will only worsen his situation,” Hotch says with finality. Then, with softness in his voice, “Take him home. He needs you.”

By the time Morgan and Hotch exit the briefing room, the rest of the team has gone home. Reid has fallen asleep on the couch, Hotch’s coat still dangling off his shoulders.

;

_It won’t happen again_ , Morgan thinks- prays.

It shouldn’t happen again. 


	3. "Listen. About California..."

They don't let him come back into the BAU for another month, and when he does, Hotch has taken his service revolver- the one he had earned with such hard work and dedication. Morgan can tell it hurts Reid to part with it. He stays in observation in the psych ward for a week. Whenever Morgan drops by to visit him, Reid stares at him with wide betrayed eyes.

When he's allowed to go home, Morgan packs a duffel bag and shows up at Reid's apartment, announcing he'll be staying with Reid.

Reid doesn't look ecstatic at the idea. "Until when?" he asks in a small voice.

"Until…" and Morgan trails off. He doesn't know.

;

“I’m going back to California,” Reid announces to the team sitting around the table.

There is a stunned silence, confused glances exchanged, a sharp gasp from Garcia. Hotch meets Morgan’s eyes and raises an eyebrow in question. Morgan shrugs. He hadn’t known about this.

Reid doesn’t offer any more information, only shrugs and smiles consolingly, adds assurances that he’ll be well taken care of.

;

When Reid loses it for the third time, an empty bottle of pills fallen on the floor and a steak knife clutched tight in both hands, Morgan is the only one there to stop him. He approaches him with gentle soothing words and arms outstretched. He’s nearly close enough to touch his shoulder.

“I got you, Spencer, you’re okay. You’re okay,” Morgan murmurs.

Reid shrieks, inhuman and piercing, and swings the knife with extraordinary strength. Morgan feels the blade rip through his shirt and skin and he flinches back from the pain. But the crazed uncalculated swing gives Morgan the chance to reach Reid and grab onto him. Even as warm blood oozes out of his wound, he holds Reid tightly from behind, arms encircling him.

Reid kicks and screams.

Morgan doesn’t let go.

;

“They told me what I did to you,” Reid says hoarsely, lying pale and washed out on his metal gurney, IV drips in his skinny arms and green beeping machines measuring his heart rate.

Morgan shrugs. “They shouldn’t have.”

“Let me see it,” Reid gestures to Morgan’s shoulder.

“No, I’m serious. You don’t have to punish yourself or repent or whatever you think this is going to do. It’s fine. _I’m_ fine.”

Reid stares at Morgan for a moment, his eyebrows drawn together. The harsh florescent lights emphasize the purple bruises under his eyes, his chapped lips, stubble on his jaw. He looks weak, exactly as though he just had his stomach pumped. “I did this. It’s not for you, it’s for me. Let me see it,” Reid repeats softly.

Morgan sighs and pulls his shirt over his head, baring his torso. Reid’s eyes linger before focusing on the angry red slash down his arm.

“Jesus. That looks worse than I thought,” Reid mutters. “I- I’m sorry. I didn’t even know I could do something like that. Why isn’t it covered?”

“A few stitches and it’s fine. I don’t want to bandage it, it’s not that bad. See, this is why I didn’t want to show you,” Morgan tells him, replacing the shirt. He wanted to prove, maybe to himself, that it wasn’t as bad as everyone said. “Listen. About California…”

“I know. I don’t want to leave the team. But honestly, look what I did to you,” Reid averts his eyes from Morgan’s intense stare. “I have to go and really, there isn’t anything you can say to stop me.”

“I don’t want to stop you,” Morgan says, and Reid looks up in surprise. “I want to go with you.”

“You what?”

“Yeah. Penelope and I talked about it and Emily agreed to take my dog. I left Aaron a message on his answering machine at the office. He should get it tomorrow morning. Actually-” Morgan checks his watch and amends his statement, “-he should get it in a few hours.”

“You _what_?” Reid repeats, stunned.

“Spencer, I’m coming with. And there isn’t anything you can say to stop me,” he echoes Reid’s own words back to him softly.

Reid must see it in his face, in his dark eyes, that he’s telling the truth. So he doesn’t even try to say anything. He just leans back and lets his eyes fall shut. “When can I leave?”

“Actually, really soon. The BAU contacted your shrink, who told the hospital you should be released into the custody of one of several agents. My name’s at the top of that list,” Morgan seems ridiculously proud of that.

So does Reid.

;

The entire way back, they talk about plans, Reid’s house he inherited from his mother, the property he invested in several years back in the middle of the woods, the psychologists he’s contacted for his medication.

“Quiet, serene. Good place to recover,” Reid says.

At his apartment, Reid freezes at the door and says, “Someone’s inside. Someone tampered with the lock.”

Morgan draws his gun instinctively and hisses, “Get behind me.”

“I’m not a child,” Reid objects, but his gun was confiscated by Hotch when he underwent psychological evaluation and he follows the direction anyway. He opens the door from under Morgan’s shoulders and shadows him in.

“I’m checking the room,” Morgan whispers and heads for the closed door.

Just as Morgan twists the knob, Reid says, “Wait, her suitcase-”

The door swings open. Lila Archer is waiting naked on the bed.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Lila swears, scrambling for the covers and wrapping herself with the duvet.

“I’m sorry!” Morgan yells, averting his eyes and turning away in the doorway. He tucks his gun back into the holster and repeats, “Lila, I’m sorry!”

He hears Reid sigh behind him, but when he looks, he realizes it’s actually snickering. From the bed, Lila laughs.

;

“You’re doing _what?_ ” Lila demands.

Reid grins, a cheeky sort of smile Morgan rarely ever gets to see on Reid’s face. It looks good on him. “Are you going to miss me?” he asks.

“No, you’re an asshole,” Lila answers, but she has a comfortable flirty smile on her face, too. "Besides, you're only moving closer to me."

Morgan suddenly feels very much like the third wheel. He feels like an intruder in Reid’s personal life, a life Reid has obviously tried to keep separate from his team for a reason. He has all this going on that Morgan never knew about- Lila, Ethan, the library he's built in his house, the piano. It actually might even hurt, to not be privy to Reid’s little secrets or habits when Lila Archer obviously is. A clandestine affair.

They continue to talk, bringing Morgan into the conversation. Lila talks about her guest role in a new TV series and she laughs at the tabloid news about her. Reid makes corny jokes, lines that even Morgan wouldn’t have used on a girl he was trying to impress. But then, Reid isn’t trying to impress Lila- he doesn’t have to.

Morgan relaxes; there is good company and they’ve all got mugs of cocoa in their hands. It must be why he first misses the signs. Reid looking over Lila’s shoulder at the kitchen wall, his eyes beginning to flick frantically over nothing. He loses interest in the conversation. Lila notices at the same time as Morgan.

She glances behind herself. “What is it?”

“There’s something in there,” Reid mumbles. He stands and walks over to the wall. He stares for a moment before gingerly pressing his ear to it. “I have to find them.”

“What are you doing?” Lila asks. When Reid doesn’t reply, she turns to Morgan. “What’s he doing?”

“I don’t know,” Morgan says. His voice is brittle. “Reid? You wanna finish your cocoa?”

“No, no, you don’t understand. I have to find them,” Reid tells them. His hand strokes the wall.

“Spencer, stop it,” Lila’s voice trembles, but she certainly puts on a brave face. The mood in the kitchen has changed so abruptly that Lila almost can’t believe it. Almost. Reid groping the wall helps drive the point home. She stands and hesitates.

“Lila, you need to step away from him. He isn’t himself,” Morgan warns. He puts a hand on her shoulder and nods his head to the front door. “You need to get to outside. He could be dangerous.”

Reid hits the wall with the flat of his palm.

_SMACK._

Morgan and Lila flinch in synchronization. “I know they’re in the walls. I just need to find them and take them out,” Reid says, his ear pressed against the wall and his knuckles rapping lightly.

“I’m not leaving him,” Lila protests.

Morgan shakes his head. “You don’t have a choice, Lila.”

“He’s going to snap out of it. Just you watch,” Lila whispers. “Right, Spencer?”

“The walls… I’m going to find them. I know,” Reid mutters furiously.

_SMACK._

“You’re scaring me,” Lila says to ears that aren’t listening. Reid ignores her, continuing to knock on the walls, moving books with trembling hands. Lila lets Morgan lead her away from the agitated Reid, toward the door. “We can’t leave. He needs us.”

“We can’t help him. He isn’t scheduled for another appointment until tomorrow. He might turn hostile if we approach him now. I can’t even sedate him, there’s nothing in his apartment.”

“Then at least we can stay near him,” Lila says resolutely. She heads for the couch Morgan slept on during the night of Reid’s first break. A moment of observation later, Morgan joins her. “How often does it happen?”

“It’s getting more frequent. That’s why we’re leaving. He needs a slightly more stable environment away from HQ and… well, all of this,” Morgan says.

“Does that include me?” Lila asks and she sounds frightened. Frightened of losing him.

Morgan looks at her, really looks at her. She’s beautiful, this perfect blonde actress who flies all the way from Hollywood to meet a brilliant troubled doctor, sitting here without make up on in one of Reid’s button up shirts. Trying to get away from the fast life, escaping her agents and coworkers. It could almost be the plot of a movie. In the movie, of course, he’d get better and they’d end up together.

But in real life… this is what would happen, Morgan realizes. People end up afraid- of losing him, of forgetting him, of hurting him, _of him_. And they couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

Another sharp smack from the kitchen distracts them. They both watch Reid as he drops to his knees and continues to repeatedly knock the walls, ear listening for sounds of nothing. They watch for hours as Reid obsessively knocks every inch of the kitchen and the living room, hurling aside books and climbing over them for better access. He’s possessed with a manic energy.

When finally Reid drops to the floor of exhaustion, his knuckles are bloody and there are little crimson spots on the wall. Lila brings the pillows and Morgan carries the duvet out to the living room floor. Lila gently props his head up, covers him up. Reid curls up and sighs contentedly in his sleep.

Reid’s blood soaks through the duvet. Tears silently fall down Lila’s face.


	4. "Make Me Flinch."

California is nothing like Virginia. Everything seems more saturated, more vibrant.

After they've said their goodbyes to the team, Morgan and Reid get on the plane to leave behind their old life. When they land, Reid grips Morgan's hand tightly, thunderous roar of wheels touching them and grating engines loud around them.

Reid's house is a beautiful little cabin surrounded by snow and redwood trees, towering over them almost ominously. They unpack in silence, moving white sheets peppered with dust, opening doors and airing out cabinets.

"Should we go get groceries?"

"You go. I want to stay here," Reid murmurs, eyes fixed outside the large glass door to the backyard.

Morgan hesitates. "Are you sure?"

Reid turns to him, skinny little frame swaying in the center of the empty kitchen. His eyes are focused. "Derek, please. I just need a little time to myself."

He sighs and nods, grabs the keys to their rental. He thinks he might need a little time himself.

;

He comes back with plastic bags upon bags in his arms. "Spencer! I'm back!" he calls, noting how absurdly domestic it sounds. _Honey, I'm home._

He finds Reid standing in nearly the exact spot in the kitchen where he had left him. Morgan leaves the bags and warily steps closer. Reid closes the distance between them with fleeting footsteps and wraps his arms around Morgan.

“I need to tell you something,” Reid says softly in his ear.

Morgan pulls away from the hug. “Go on.”

“No, no. Not like this, I can’t. It isn’t safe to say out in the open.”

_Fuck._ He’s delusional again, Morgan thinks. He can see it in his wrinkled clothes, unkempt hair, unshaved face, his eyes. He despairs for a moment, a wound in his chest that flares up every time he realized his Reid is missing. Are these signs of madness or just a tired jet-lagged Reid? “Have you taken your meds?”

"Shut up," Reid glares at him. “If I say it out loud, it won't mean anything.”

“Fine,” Morgan compromises. “Whisper in my ear instead.”

Reid pulls close to Morgan. “I love you.”

He turns and walks out the patio door. Morgan stares after him, stunned. He considers calling Reid’s psychologist; she kept saying that anything out of character should be reported. Still, he hesitates to share it.

_This isn’t out of character. It’s Reid and it’s me. It’s our moment. Mine._

So instead Morgan opens the door, the first breeze in these temperatures bringing tears to his eyes. He goes back inside and gets a coat before going out in the darkness. When he finds Reid lying in the field, there’s snow melting in his hair and the tip of his nose is red.

“Come lie here with me,” Reid says. And even though the ground is hard and it’s freezing, Morgan does. He eases back and touches Reid's hand with his own- just a nudge with his pinkie. Almost a reassurance, _he’s warm, he’s alive, he’s next to me._ His eyes focus on the stars, glittering shards of ice. It was hard to imagine them being burning balls of gas and flame when from here they looked so cold and aloof.

Reid points up with his other hand. “Scorpius,” he says in a hushed voice. “Used to be my favorite. It was complicated and fierce. I imagined it scurrying around the night sky, smugly waving its stinger in the other’s faces. But then I started liking Bootes, the herdsman. His story goes that he invented the plow. But I grew fond of him because he looked like a question mark. Elegant. Poised. Waiting patiently for his fields to sprout.”

“How do you know all this?” Morgan whispers back but he’s glad. He’s back. It’s his Spencer again, spouting facts and obscurities. Morgan can still feel that gaping wound in his chest, the feeling that these inbetween snatches of happiness would only last as long as Reid's state of mind.

“I memorized an astronomy book in seventh grade,” Reid replies and they both fall silent for a moment. Then Reid shifts slightly and takes Morgan's hand. His long fingers are cold wrapping around Morgan's warm ones. “Thank you for being here with me.”

“Of course,” Morgan replies automatically and easily.

“It can’t be easy, taking care of someone who’s slowly going mad.”

Morgan's voice hardens, “Don’t say that.”

“Honestly. It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Reid chuckles but there’s no sincerity in the sound. “I couldn’t handle it. I sent my mother to an institute.”

“You were _eighteen,_ Spencer. Nobody could’ve expected you to handle it. You did the best you could.”

“I was a genius. I could’ve done anything I wanted and I chose not to,” he scoffed.

Morgan has no words. He doesn't say anything at all. A moment later, Reid moves in closer, nestling toward Morgan's coat. He sits up and tugs at Morgan's hand so Morgan sits up with him.

Reid's lips touch against Morgan's gently, softly, the pressure of his tongue delicate. It sets his blood on fire, struggling just to breathe. Reid's eyes shine by starlight and his mouth whispers some secret into the night. Morgan pulls away first, unsure, breathing hard.

Somewhere in the distance, the hoot of an owl sounds. Reid sighs contentedly against Morgan's skin, resting his forehead on his cheek. He gets to his feet and goes back inside.

Morgan follows unsteadily a few seconds later, but by the time he enters the cabin, Reid's door is closed.

;

It takes two hours curled up by the fire before Morgan can feel his fingers again.

;

The next morning, a sweaty Morgan walks in on Reid in the bath after his run. He’s scouring his body with a steel scrub. His skin is scrubbed raw, his arms bleeding from raw angry scratches. The water in the tub is red.

Morgan gasps and runs forward. He takes Reid’s wrists and yells, “Stop!”

“It’s in my skin, Derek!” Reid insists. “It’s _inside_ of my skin!”

“Nothing’s in your skin! Listen to me. Listen!” Morgan snarls, pissed off because his medication still isn't working, pissed because he can't stand the idea of Reid hurt. Water seeps into his white shirt, staining it pink. He grabs Reid’s face with a hand, staring into his large, dilated eyes. “Nothing. Is in. Your skin.”

“You don’t understand,” Reid whispers. “Someone in this room is talking, Derek.”

“We’re alone,” Morgan tells him.

“We’re alone,” Reid agrees readily. “We’re alone, you and me... but someone is talking.”

Morgan sighs. “I know. I’m sorry,” Morgan says. He lets go of Reid and wraps him up in his arms instead. Water sloshes over the sides of the tub.

“They’re loud today,” Reid adds, cheek pressed against Morgan’s wet shirt.

“Let’s get you out of the tub,” Morgan murmurs, helping him stand. He can't help but notice Reid’s malnourished naked body beneath the angry red streaks of steel scrubbing. He helps dry him off, lightly grazing the towel over his ribs and sternum sticking out from beneath the pale flesh.

Reid compliantly holds up his arms and lets Morgan slip on a shirt, get a pair of pajamas on.

"I'm going to make you breakfast and you're going to eat it. Then we're paying your shrink a visit," Morgan says, voice brittle. Reid nods compliantly, stiff as a puppet, and Morgan's heart sinks down to the soles of his weary feet.

;

Days later, after the wounds have closed and faded, the scabs formed over and healed, after there is nothing left but the slightest hint of scars, after his medicine dosage has been doubled, Reid takes Morgan by surprise in the kitchen.

“Why are you doing this?” he demands, standing there against the fridge while Morgan does the dishes.

“Doing what?”

“This,” Reid repeats.

“The dishes?” Morgan laughs, but Reid doesn’t join in and he stops. “I’m taking care of you because I care for you. Deeply. I want you to be okay, I want to be here with you.”

“Then why are you treating me like shit? Did I do something to deserve it?” Reid asks, his voice lowering.

Something in the way he says it makes Morgan turn off the water and dry his hands. He turns to face the other man, his heartbeat accelerated. Another episode? Was he losing touch with reality again? “Spencer, what’re you talking about? How am I treating you?”

“Like I’m made of glass. Like I’m going to shatter if you touch me,” Reid says.

Morgan blinks, slightly surprised, more confused. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Reid sighs in frustration, running a hand through his messy hair. “Look, I get it. I’m crazy. I forget things. I hurt myself. I wake up and I don’t know where I am. I walk around feeling lost in my own house. I’m spooked by my shadow half the time. I don’t recognize the face in the mirror.”

“Reid…” Morgan starts, but Reid’s talking and he’s not stopping.

“Everyone always talks to me with hushed tones and pity-filled eyes. JJ calls and she talks about anything but my crazy fucked-up head. The guy who hands me my prescription at the pharmacy shakes his head when he reads what my medication is. These people are _enough_. They make me feel brittle; they make me think I’m coming apart at the seams, that there’s nothing to keep together the stitching, even before I do anything dangerous. I don’t need you to do it, too.”

“Spencer,” Morgan tries to stay soothing, “tell me what I’m doing wrong and I’ll fix it.”

“I need you to stop acting like I’m so fucking fragile,” Reid growls. He pushes off from the fridge and takes a step toward Morgan. “Stop thinking I’m going to crack. Don’t tip toe around me. Yell. Make me flinch.” Another step.

Morgan remembers their kiss in the dark woods and his breath quickens.

“I don’t think-”

“I need you to stop thinking,” Reid adds, close enough now to look straight into Morgan’s eyes, that single inch difference between their heights just enough to give Reid leverage.

“Why?” Morgan breathes. His words don’t need to be said any louder.

Reid takes Morgan’s wet soapy hands. He brings one to his back, the other positioned on his shoulder. “Because the more you think, the less you’ll feel. I want you to press, I want you to push. Prove to me that I won’t break apart in your arms like crystal. Leave bruises that I haven’t inflicted on myself. Mark the places you like best so you can remember them when I become my worst.”

His words are poetry. But Morgan can hardly hear those words because there is also poetry in his dark lust filled eyes, in his messy coffee-with-milk hair, in that place between his neck and chest where the light is reflecting off his jutting bones, in the tip of his nose. He is nothing but poetry there in that kitchen.

He closes the spaces between them. Morgan’s fingers can feel through Reid’s paltry cotton shirt, down to the flesh and skeletons and the warmth, oh the warmth. His skin is pliable, but he isn’t crystal in his arms, not at all. He won’t break apart. There is a heartbeat somewhere Morgan can hear very loudly, throbbing alive and hot.

“Pretend nothing else exists but our bodies. Not your overanalyzing brain, not my fucked-up one.” As he talks, Reid’s eyes seem to get bigger. The shades under them vanish. His lips move, lines appear and disappear, his face becomes predator. It doesn’t matter anymore how damaged the goods underneath are.

"Reid," Morgan groans.

Hungrily, Reid leans in and whispers, “Because if you keep thinking, you won’t notice how I’m standing _right here._ Waiting for you to look at me, look into me, through me.”

His lips hover over Morgan, unwilling to meet. Still waiting for something. Morgan knows exactly what.

So he stops thinking.

;

He fucks Reid in the kitchen, against the counter with the marble digging into his skin and leaving imprints that he'll run his fingers over later in wonder. He presses his lips to every rib, the expanse of Reid's body like a cliff with its jagged edges and sudden cutoffs, and every sigh like a prayer in the air of the kitchen.

Reid wears his madness proudly on his body like a badge, behind every scar and mark, like his sobriety coins, each one etched permanently without ink. But for once, he wears instead Morgan's warmth and love and he loses himself in it.

And afterward, so what if they're both sore and bruised? So what if the kitchen is still a mess?

Reid's laugh has never sounded so beautiful than in those few hours.

;

Garcia is the first one who catches on- but then, she often is. She listens to Morgan's voice for only seconds before asking, "Okay, what aren't you telling me?"

And Morgan chuckles with Reid watching on and tells her, "Nothing."

"Did you just laugh at me nervously, Derek Morgan?" she needles.

"I did no such thing," he says in exaggeration. He can almost see her in his mind, the way she would be chewing on a pen, eyebrows drawn together to figure out this new piece of the puzzle.

"Where's Spencer?"

"He's here. On the sofa."

"Is it something to do with him?" she asks.

"Maybe. Maybe not." Teasing her on the phone is almost as fun as doing it in person, though he wishes he could see her more regularly. He misses her banter.

Reid gets up and wanders away, bored. It's always bored or moody with him these days. Garcia continues in his ear, "I swear to god, if you don't tell me what's going on in that little house in California, I'm going to hack into your laptop and install a live-feed from your webcam straight to my computer!"

And Morgan thinks, _fuck it,_ and he blurts out, "Reid and me are together."

Quiet on the other end. For once, Morgan has managed to make Garcia speechless. Or so he thinks, until she laughs and says, "That's it?"

"That's it?" Morgan echoes. "What do you mean, that's it?"

"It means I win the pool."

"What pool?" he sputters

"The one we set up after you two left. The one that I have now won for correctly guessing you'd be together within two weeks. Can you believe Prentiss bet three whole months?"

"I can't believe any of you bet at all!" Morgan says. But instead of anger, he finds a bit of nostalgia in his chest- and pride? Stubborn childishness makes him ask, "How did you guys even know?"

"Oh, like you eye-fucking him all the time and him giving you these longing stares wasn't enough?"

He doesn't know how he could possibly miss the longing stares, but apparently he had. Reid would probably get a kick out of the betting pool. To Garcia, he says, "I miss you, baby girl."

And she sighs and answers, "I miss you more. Just keep Spencer safe."

And he will.

;

Ethan calls. Reid lets his cell ring and ring and ring. He keeps his eyes fixed on the book he's reading- reviewing a textbook for a colleague that's due for publishing next month. His cell rings again and Reid draws his feet up on the couch. It buzzes moments later with a text, rings once more.

Reid's been silent all day, refusing to answer to anything- dinner, case references, movies. Morgan had given up an hour ago, put water to boil for pasta, and sat down on his laptop to assist Garcia- unofficially- on a case. "Are you going to answer it?" Derek asks finally.

"I don't need to," Reid says, his first words since yesterday.

"Who is it?"

"Ethan. He'll say nice things."

Morgan squashes down a rising pang of jealousy. "And you don't want to hear them?"

Reid looks up, his brow furrowed. "Not if he's lying."

"How do you know he's lying?"

A slow smile spreads over Reid's face, utterly without humor, and answers, "Everyone's always lying."

"I'm not," Morgan objects.

"Oh, Derek," he shakes his head and returns to his textbook. When the phone rings again, Reid picks it up and calmly walks to the range, to the pot of boiling water. He lifts the lid and drops the ringing phone into it.

Morgan watches in horrified fascination as it continues to produce a distant muffled sound for a moment longer before falling permanently silent. Reid returns to the sofa.

That’s a ruined phone and a ruined dinner.


End file.
